


The Depth of a Dream

by Aminita



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Honestly this is too shit for a Beta, How Do I Tag, Not betad, Poly? Maybe?, Purely authorial fluff, Romance?, These tags are just apologies, Why Did I Write This?, Why do I keep adding chapters, deliberately vauge characters, eventually?, no beta we die like men, not really but eh, soulmates au kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-25 21:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18171482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminita/pseuds/Aminita
Summary: I was told to post this flaming trash fireIt's basically an au of and au with a mysterious protag who is dreaming about a mysterious woman he definitely has never seen but somehow knows.  If you squint there's a HINT of plot.Somehow I wrote a shitload of this, and it's just getting shorter and more fluffy and really, there are better works on here





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so so sorry turn back now this is just meaningless drivel

The first night he didn’t know they were dreams. He had simply awakened, to the vivid detail of a looming mountain in the distance, the sky blue and layered with wispy clouds. Long fronds of grass waved before him, dotted with small, colorful wildflowers. He wasn’t sure how long he stood, looking at the exquisite scene. 

He could feel the earth under his shoes, the firmness of the ground, the way the air blew past his hair, dragging strands away to brush his cheeks. He could smell the soft scent of flower nectar and the warmth of the sun that shone down in bright rays of his face.

When he woke, he thought it was odd that his dream felt so incredibly real compared to the other dreams that he had had in the past, fleeting watery things he could never remember upon waking. Every detail of the strange landscape was burned in his mind still, and it was with puzzlement that he went about his day, his thoughts occasionally flitting to the place when the wind caught his hair just so, or he thought that a certain building cast the same shadow as the mountain, the sky the same as the one he had seen.

As the month drug on, he found that the dreams continues. Alien places of beauty, burnt umber trees and cerulean grasses that waved under a brilliant magenta sky, with twin moons hovering in the sky. 

It simply became part of his nighttime routine. He didn’t recognise any of those alien worlds, but he did find them beautiful, and had started sketching them in this spare time. He subscribed them as some sort of. . . Overactive creativity. It was nothing to worry about.

It wasn’t until he dreamed of the house that he started to have problems. Just dreams of a large white - manor, mansion? - on a small hill, overlooking a valley. He - remembered? Recalled? Knew? - that maze. It gave him a shiver of dread.

The mansion itself was resplendent, white marble standing imposingly over the flowerbeds that were before it. The doors were dark wood, up a short set of stairs to reach them, the knobs shining in the low light.

He felt like he had been here before, somehow. . .Had been - had seen the inside, had touched those doors. And yet he was completely sure he had never seen this place before.

Without his permission, his feet were walking him up those short stairs, leading him towards the door. His hand touched the handle, and he woke with a start, staring at the ceiling, hearing his sister sleeping nearby.

His next sleep found him walking through those doors, as if seamlessly picking up from his previous dream. The house looked empty, nobody in the foyer, but laughter rang down the stairs. It was a very unfamiliar house, a wide staircase on either side of wall that stretched high, higher than maybe even the walls of the Palace. There was a long table visible through the curved arch to the right, what felt like a living room to the left, but for some reason, the stairs were what drew him in. More, what was up the stairs.

The foyer itself was huge, maybe three stories tall, with a glittering chandelier hanging over his head, sparkling in the settling light that streamed through the windows behind him.

Was it a dream? It felt like a dream. He was walking up the staircase, following the curve of the railing to where the two joined, showing a lengthy hall. There was a door open. . . He could see it where the hall intersected with another one. It felt like. . . There should be music? But he couldn’t hear anything. And yet, he was walking towards it, to the beat of the non existent music. The music he couldn’t hear, but somehow. . . Felt?

The laughter rang out again, a great peel of delight. Breathless excitement. The door was blocking the view of the room, the wood ornate and something fancy. . . Some sort of wood he didn’t recognize. He could hear the laughter on the other side of the door, and if he just stepped around -

He jerked upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Another one of those dreams. Nightmares? He always woke with a start, yanked from a deep sleep, but it didn’t seem like a nightmare. No, it seemed. . . There wasn’t anything scary. If he had to ascribe a feeling to the dream, he would say it felt like. . . Loneliness.

The dreams had started including the voice a fortnight ago, and while the strange - home? Palace? Mansion? - appeared, and he heard the same laughter, or girl's voice, it always seemed to take place somewhere he couldn’t reach. He could be running through a forest, much more naturally green than his own, filled with oak trees and not pine, and never find the laughter. Or in the middle of a great lake, on a beach, standing on a rickety dock of an island. 

There were some constants to his dreams. The voice - sometimes he heard laughter, sometimes it was words he couldn’t make out. Once, it was crying, and he didn’t want to think of that. That had been a nightmare. Trying to navigate the woods, finding a small cabin, but the instant he tried to open the door and comfort the sobbing girl he heard, he woke, guts twisted and chest tight with the all consuming loneliness he felt.

And there was never anyone he could see in his dreams. He was always alone. Alone in the forest, the house, once a great library. . . His dreams held no one else.

He scrubbed his eyes, kicking the single blanket off and going to scrub his face. It felt. . . The dreams felt wrong. Like a piece of something missing, but he had never been to those locations. He knew he'd never seen them before. And he had never heard the girl, who he could never seem to see, either. 

Every time dreamt, it felt like the first time seeing the place, the first time hearing the girl. And yet, it felt like he had been there. Known her for a long time. Even when she was laughing, he could feel the faintest air of loneliness, when call he could hear was the syllables she made but no words, blurred in the dream-fog of his mind. . . He could taste her sadness, her despair.

They weren’t nightmares, but they were frustrating in a whole different way than nightmares were.

So when he started to ignore the voice instead of going towards it, exploring the places he appeared at, hoping for some clues, he tried to decipher why he kept having these dreams. 

The library was huge. Dusty tombs stood on old shelves, some behind a velvet curtain. Though he struggled valiantly, he found it impossible to read any of the words, the letters blurrily invisible and slipping away from his grasp. He explored the empty building - in the center there was a large, wrought iron staircase that went up at least five floors, and the place almost seemed to have been a castle before having so many books tucked away. There was a circular desk on either side, obviously for the checking out of books. It was all very old fashioned and seemed quite quint, and the place was well cared for, if in need of a good cleaning. 

Another night he found himself on the shore of an island, standing on glassy black sand, that turned more yellow the closer to the treeline it got. The whole island gave him a terrible feeling of dread, of fear, of utter horror that he found hard to ignore. He stayed by the old dock he had woken to, looking out over the angry gry waves under the darkened sky. It looked like rain, and for some reason, it made his heart hurt. . . 

The feelings associated with certain places confused him. Why did the branch of one certain tree felt so familiar. Why did a fairly shallow lake made him feel nostalgic? Why did it make him think of a water fight he knew he'd never been in? Why a room, painted a pale blue and containing a dark wood desk in the corner and a magnificent four poster bed, made him feel like he belonged there.

He had been having the strange dreams for four months before it happened. He was wandering, listening to the somehow soothing babble of the words he somehow couldn’t hear, in the voice that had become familiar and friendly somehow, when he saw someone. A tall man, with dark hair, wearing an impeccable suit, crossing the hall in front of him. And when he called out, running to catch up, to ask questions - he woke again. 

Slowly, he started to see more people. He started having the same dreams he had had - but now, the people we’re in them. They didn’t seem to hear or notice him, or if they did, they didn’t react. It was enough to drive someone mad.

He was back in the dream he'd had four times before. This time he could hear the faint melody. Again, he was pulled up the stairs. The end of the hall, turning into another, there was a door. Open, but in such a way he couldn’t see inside. He moved towards the door, hoping maybe this time he could hear words. See the owner of the voice that haunted his dreams, night after night.

The door blocked his view, all he had to do was step out around it. . .


	2. Chapter 2

It was another night, getting ready for bed, leaning one candle lit in the otherwise pitch darkness of the room. Curling under the covers to stay warm, he wondered what the dream would be again. He hadn’t see the face of the girl, but he had seen many others now. Someone else with hair as red as his, who laughed to an identical looking man with white hair and a grumpy expression. He wore a red hoodie and jeans, hands often jammed in his pocket while he fiddled with a cord. He had yellow and black glasses, and following him led into a strange room he felt no connection to at all. 

He abandoned that boy to follow the other. The albino doppelgänger had a much simpler room, and following him often led out to the gardens, where he felt at home, but no strong draw to. The flowers were strange and beautiful, some he had never seen before. This person was either in a magenta overcoat or a suit, and usually seemed to be in a good or bad mood depending on his choice of attire.

There was a tall, skeletal figure that ghosted the house, who he didn’t feel like would answer him anyways. He wore a striking full white mask that covered from his upper lip to his forehead, and around to both ears. Another man who was more fleshed out bore a similar half mask, and they were often together. The first person he had ever seen from before in the suit, who always seemed busy, often retired to a room under the stairs that looked like a study. Somehow, he was always drawn to the talking or laughter he heard, yet could never see who caused it.

There was also a man - a boy? - who was often found practicing sparring in a mirror, tugging on a green sweater when he wasn’t practicing. Somehow, he was sure this person would be right at home with a sword in their hands, and it would be best not to antagonize them.

He had started to catch snatches of brownish red hair around a corner, the swishing of a skirt into a room. Sometimes he almost felt like he could understand the words. Settling under the covers and closing his eyes, he wasn’t sure if he was angry he hadn’t figured out how to see her, or still too curious about the mystery.

When he opened his eyes again, it was a sunlit glade, and he was facing the back of someone. She was shrouded in light, and he could feel more than hear her, but she was singing a soft tune. The lyrics were just out of his reach, but the tune was sad, and he felt like someone was reaching into his chest, past his ribs, and tugging on his heart. It felt like he knew her. He was afraid to approach, worried she would vanish. So he stood and listened to the not-quite-a-melody, the warbling way she sung the notes and the way they seemed to reverberate inside his chest, making him feel warm even as he squinted against the light to try and see her better. 

Her hair was long reaching her waist, and peering against the sun, he saw the glint and shine of coppers and reds in the otherwise brown hair. She was wearing a flowing skirt that draped around what she was sitting in - was it a tree stump? It looked natural, weathered. Tall oak trees surrounded the glade, bathed in sunlight, casting shadows that somehow felt welcoming.

The area objectively should be terrifying, with the trees, the lack of knowledge, but. . . He felt comfortable. Like coming back home, or going to a friends house you’ve been to. There was mystery in the trees, but no terror.

When he woke, it was feeling an intense, aching emptiness that he couldn’t make go away the entire day. His mind was drawn back to the image of the girl on the stump in the glade, shrouded in sunlight. He heard the phantom sounds of her singing when he let his mind drift, and saw her image when he closed his eyes.  
IIt had been years, another lifetime really, when he was a different person, since he had had the dreams. So when they started again, it was a very unwelcome change. Something he had forgotten was that no amount of yelling or screaming seemed to get through - it was as if all the dreams existed in some twilight zone where noise was as uncatchable as water. In fact, it sounded like being underwater. Deep down, where the pressure kept all normal sounds away.

He remembered the dreams being strange, showing him impossible places, seeing people who he couldn’t speak with, but he hadn’t remembered the. . . Sadness that accompanied the return of the dreams. Waking to a dream was waking to an aching emptiness. To the feeling of pure sadness, the kind that left one to cry enough tears to fill an ocean, to consider doing things no one who was happy and in their right mind would try to make the hollow feeling stop. Who felt like hurling themself off a bridge from a dream anyways?

It was galling, and he refused to chase the ethereal woman again. She wasn’t worth his time. So instead, he did what he could to pay as little attention to her as possible. He often walked as far away from her as he could, trying to outrun the haunting feelings that tore through him. 

That didn’t stop the ache in his chest though. Or give him a better night’s sleep. He found he could ignore the ache, her, even wake himself up, but he was left sleeping fitfully.

Eventually, it was easier to not sleep properly at all, and only lightly nap. The woman in his dreams apparently couldn’t reach him when he was just napping, so he found himself sleeping lighter and lighter. Sure, he was a little more irritable and definitely more tired, but he got used to it.

It was better than trying to fing her, the one time he did, and be wracked with a sense of utter loss as he got closer to the back of a crying figure on a couch.

He definitely wasn’t curious why he kept having inexplicably sad, very strange unviewable dreams about a woman, when he slept. He didn’t care what she thought, or where she cried, or that he found himself humming strange melodies he had certainly never heard in the waking world when she wasn’t around. She had been young, the last time he saw her. Perhaps slightly younger than him. Or perhaps she was just very short. . . 

He forced himself not to think about her in the day, even when his mind would drift back to her, or he would find himself comparing a slave’s hair color to hers. She was a stupid childhood nightmare, and he wasn’t going to be associated with it.

He refused to acknowledge the way the dreams had become more vivid, on the nights he was alone and exhausted and couldn’t help falling asleep. The way he could smell perfumes and touch the walls, still a ghost, but he could have sworn the albino man from that lifetime ago had looked at him - really looked, like seeing something that didn’t belong. 

Sometimes his mind would wander to her. He wondered what she looked like, now and then. He knew how she sounded laughing, or crying. That was a dream he woke himself from immediately. The all-consuming sobs that threatened to shatter him, to shatter everything. . . 

He didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure she could uproot a mountain. She had a raw, untamed feeling of power. Once, he had found himself in a pale room, with a large bed and the doors to a balcony thrown wide. The breeze ruffled the gauzy curtains around the bed, and the stars shone brightly in the sky - no smog here, nothing to obscure them. The windows shone moonlight on the floor, casting strange shadows.

He wasn’t one to complain about being in a girl’s bedroom, but the quiet breaths behind the door in the wall were. . . Captivating. It wasn’t a melody, exactly, more. . . A heartbeat, almost. And if he happened to stand there, unable to pull himself away from the slow beat, the feeling of warmth, of rightness, of fond-happy-contentment, - Well. Who could blame him, really? Waking up on command is very hard to do.

At some point, he found himself inexplicably angry. He hated her, and he didn’t know why - but she was always there, a ghost on the corners of his mind. He found himself trying to decide what she would like, based on the things he had seen. This was madness, and while he usually endorsed such things, this was something he was firmly against. Who was this witch, to ensnare his solitude, to wreck his sleep and distract him? 

He tried taking it out on women he came across, but under any enjoyment, after every party, orgy, every fuck, there was the feeling of. . . Something missing. Like a puzzle that was short the middle of the picture. It was maddening, it was frustrating - infuriating. The phantom he hadn’t even seen somehow had the power to take away from the one thing he did well.

In time, her siren lure faded again. There were other, prettier, more interesting girls. Ones he could see. Ones who never hummed phantom tunes with words he couldn’t hear that made his heart feel warm, reminded him of times he had never had, filled him with nostalgia and fondness. The dreams faded for a time, and he was able to exist without wondering about the strange creature in his sleep, who ensnared his mind.

Until she returned. Again and again, he threw himself at whatever door she was behind, screamed himself hoarse trying to be heard, to get a reaction. But the harder he tried, the more he seemed to fail.

Until one day, he was in the foyer and heard the laughing again. He had dreamt this dream a hundred times, but this time. . . Felt heavier. Different. Slowly he moved up the stairs, boots softly thudding in each one. He could hear the music now, feel it in his veins but hear the notes in his ears. Hear the annoying-endearing-obnoxious laughter he always heard. The top of the stairs was deserted. He walked down the hall. The door was open as always. He moved behind it, all he had to do was walk around. 

And he did. And saw the redhead twirling a girl, no older than him, who and laughed and laughed, pirouetting under his hand, hair flying around her. She was plainer than he expected, and as she spun once, twice, her eyes caught his, and she stumbled to a halt, sparkling green eyes locked on his face. Her expression twisted to shock, and he was hit with a feeling of dismay like someone had punched him in the chest -

And he woke up, staring at the ceiling of the small bar room he had rented. With the woman’s expression in his mind’s eye, and the feeling of pure loss still gripping his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

After seeing the girl for the first time, he started to be able to snatch glimpses of her in his dream. Walking through the garden with the albino, pouring over papers with the man in a suit, singing along with the masked men. Sometimes, he would catch her alone, but any attempt he made to speak with her woke him almost immediately.

It was beyond frustrating, to watch her but be unable to interact. Sometimes the dreams were even hazier, and he would watch as she was stocking shelves or arguing with a much more portly woman. Sometimes, he felt. . . Happy. There was a certain peace to watching her. He was still furious he couldn’t control the dreams, couldn't speak to her, after finally being able to see her, ask all the questions burning - just why was she familiar? Why was she so shocked to see him? Why did he comfortable around her?

Once, he found himself following her into an attic, and an intense feeling of nostalgia hit him. He could have sworn that he had been here - that the place left a real impression. Something he couldn’t put his finger on - 

(lust-arousal-sex-amusement-love-familiarity-happiness-warmth)

She was humming a soft tune, stacking some boxes, twirling around. Warm grey pants and a black hoodie, with a pair of soft sneakers. Who was she? When she caught sight of him in the shadows and almost fell, and gasped, and before he could ask the first burning question, he was jerking awake in bed. 

He followed her on a moonlit path to a small, cheerful log cabin that puffed smoke, watched her undo the latch. He could get ahead of her, but he was honestly tired. Tired of not sleeping, tired of not being able to be heard, to question or ask or communicate at all. SO he just watched her unlatch the door, and head inside, following behind her. It was a cozy little home, and another wave of nostalgia hit him - he had been here before, even if he didn’t remember it, he was sure of it.

More than once, he found himself listening in on conversations. Private or innocuous, they ranged from snippets about the multiple cats in the house to matters of medication. He didn’t understand the words bandied around, but he understood the way her strained laugh was meant to cover her nerves. Whatever they were, he didn’t think it was helping much.

It was hard to keep up, with half the words still fading out while he was listening, but he was being able to hear things, which was important to him. He tried to listen as much as possible, because perhaps one of them would let slip an answer to his questions. Unfortunately, they never did. 

He was forced to continue enduring the existence of a ghost in memories, unable to communicate or interact.

She was in a store, standing on tiptoe, trying to put a painting up on the wall, the nail just out of reach even though she stretched every centimeter higher she could reach. It was almost mockingly annoying, he could have put the picture up without even getting on his tip toes. With a huff, she moved to get a step stool, scrambling onto it, skirt draping around her knees. Kneeling on the chair, she hung the painting triumphantly, and against his will he couldn’t help but feel proud of her.

“Nice painting,” it was a sarcastic line that slipped past his lips before he thought better of it, considering none of his quips had ever gone noticed, and for a second, he thought she looked over, locking eyes as if she had heard him through this insufferable veil -

And then he woke again, drenched in sweat as if he had run a marathon. He was heaving, hair plastered to his skull. Another shower, it seemed. He was distracted the rest of the day, unable to focus on his work. Even going to the stables to check on his horse didn’t calm his mind

It wasn’t until he was laying down to bed that he realized he hasn’t asked a question, and she had heard him.


	4. Chapter 4

They were outside the mansion, standing in front of a thin ring of dead foliage, surrounding a wide circle of lush grass. She was in the center, wearing a too-small athletic band to contain her breasts, which was straining and still bouncing as she moved.

Connor, the unmannered ruffian in the green sweater, was circling her, and they dived at each other, clashing in a great fight. She caught his wrists and he tried to sweep her, foot colliding with erh ankle and knocking her down, collapsing over her and muffling her grunt, but she was quick to use her leverage to flip them, digging her knee into his abdomen, making him snarl. The businessman - Ianto? - clapped, and they broke apart, with her grinning ferally and moving back into position.

This time, the boy circled her before charging in, bent over for a tackle. She switched stances and her foot whipped out, cracking into his shoulder, stalling his movement while she used the momentum to quite literally climb over him. He reacted by slipping round and clamping a hand around her arms, and locking his forearm around her neck. She brought her arms up, sliding them in by his elbows and jerked. His grip held but he was distracted, and her leg whipped up in a near split before cracking down on the earth just in front of his foot, barely short of his toes, digging deeply into the grass. Another clap.

If she had hit her target, the kid would probably have a broken foot. . . Her precision was impressive. He swore she glanced at him while she was walking to take a long gulp of water. Interested enough in the style, he liked a spot outside the ring and sat down. Just as they got into position again, he recalled the last dream and her reaction. When the boy charged her this time, he wait until she was going to react before calling out, “Left!” She faltered, glancing at him, and was bowled over by the boy. He was pleased to be able to tune into the conversation, watching as she grunted hitting the ground.

“Well you totally missed that. What distracted you?” Connor helped her up, while she frowned in his direction. 

“Just thought I heard something. I won’t get distracted again.” Connor snorted, like he had heard that too many times before. Ianto came up, looking frustrated. 

“These are situations where you cannot be distracted. Your safety is on the line! Perhaps we should take a break for you.” She frowned, crossing her arms and unconsciously accentuating her chest. 

“No, I want to keep fighting.” With a wave of his hand, Ianto and Connor started walking back to the house. “Hey, don’t ignore me! Ianto, you bastard, get back here - Connor don’t fucking follow him - Ugggghhhh!” She kicked angrily at the ground, enforce rounding on him. “What the hell?”

Well, at least it had worked, although he wasn’t sure he liked this outcome. The atmosphere had changed from jovial comradery to something more sinister, energy crackling between them. He considered how to deal with her, then just shrugged, grinning as he shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, just wanted a reaction.” He paired it with a smirk, impressed he’d gotten to converse so much this time. The firecracker in front of him was flushed with fury, fists gripped at her sides.

“I should deck you, you inconsiderate ass - “ just then he found himself blinking awake. Well. At least it was more interesting this way. Being able to speak with her was fun, even if the murderous looks and the disconcerting feeling of poking a bomb wasn’t as good.He was almost looking forwards to the next night. 

Which never came. He went to bed, eager for his next dream, but found himself waking in the morning, recalling nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

After the fourth night in a row that he had slept, waking without a single impossibly detailed dream, he snarled, punching his pillow, and resigned himself to accept that the stupid dreams and the stupid girl weren’t that important. SHe was entertaining, but not worth trying to get.

He had resolved to put her out of his mind, but someone’s voice, their hair, a certain laugh - he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He started remembering some of the different dreams, tried to recall the different scenes he had been in. The different people he had heard her talking to. 

If he didn’t do his job quite as well and normal, well. Nobody said anything. And if he resumed drawing, something he hadn’t done for years, drawings that started to turn into half-completed sketches of a girl none of them had ever seen. . . It wasn’t their business.

He was almost relieved when he went to bed and opened his eyes to see the white doors to the mansion. He felt a pervasive sense of sadness but shook it off, determined to try this again. Hurrying inside and up the stairs, he came to a stop in front of the ajar door to the room of the woman who had captured his mind. He knew it was her room as surely as he knew his own - somehow he could just feel it was hers. He hurried around the pale wood door - 

She was sitting with the redhead, locked in what looked like a passionate embrace. Her face was tucked into his shoulder, and he was rubbing her back slowly, murmuring something too soft to be heard.

For some reason, the sight enraged him. Why was she curled so intimately around him - she was practically sitting in his lap! He stormed into the room, mouth open to yell -

And was awake in bed, snarling at the ceiling which did not change. He turned over, punching his pillow viciously, the bitter taste of betrayal and the salty sting of tears rising that he refused to acknowledge. He didn’t know who she was and categorically refused to cry over her - even if he felt like a jilted lover, a cheated upon spouse. He had no idea why he felt so hurt. He almost wished he could fall back asleep, so he could scream at her, ask her what she was doing, what that was, why he felt so very hurt -

After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally drifted off to sleep, but he didn’t see the marble palace again. He slept without another dream, and woke with the dawn, to the sounds of his sister calling him.

He kept thinking about the image they made as he worked.


	6. Chapter 6

When he fell asleep next, he awoke to a busy kitchen, and to the object of his 

(hatred-love-lust-desire-care-disregard)

Busily working away, hands pushing into a wide patch of dough. She was laughing and joking with the man in the half mask, until she caught sight of him off to the side, before quickly dropping her eyes. He refused to acknowledge her, storming out into the garden through the back door. He found the other man, the albino - Saeran? - there. He found himself sat by the man who was diligently watering flowers, in a magenta coat today. A good day for him then. He watched the man, and completely ignored the feeling of hurt when he woke to his room, not having seen the girl again.

Unfortunately, his dreams had another idea, and he was back to his regularly scheduled missed sleep as he was constantly waking by her. 

Sometimes she was in her room, sat before a vanity with one of the men brushing her hair. Sometimes, she was outside in the gardens, fingers trailing along the petals. On the upside, the more he refused to acknowledge her, the more she refused to acknowledge him, too.

On the downside, the more aggressively he found himself by her. At one point he found himself outside the door to her room, just as she opened it and they came nearly nose to nose. There was a tense beat of silence - this close, it was hard to tell f her eyes were green or grey, and you could see each eyelash that curved over her face. She was a full head shorter than he was, forcing her to look up at him, and he down at her. 

They stayed there for a second - an eternity, a year, several minutes? - and then she broke the strange connection, dropping her eyes and unceremoniously slammed the door in his face. 

 

He spent the rest of the week avoiding her, and trying to ignore the strange ache that pervaded his chest when he turned his back to her or deliberately ignored her presence. By the fifth day, it was too much and he couldn’t help it - it wasn’t a pain he could really understand or describe. It wasn’t like a cut, that would scab over, but more like a gaping hole somewhere in his heart that mourned the loss of her in his sight. 

So, against his better judgement, he started seeking her out, observing her with the others. He watched her interact with Ianto, pouring over papers and documents, and badly trying to speak French with the skeletal Eriks. He observed her trying to bake - he had never seen to much flour get wasted in his life - with the albino, and reluctantly saw her playing games with the redhead. 

That bothered him less, because they were on seperate computers or sitting across the couch with only their shoulders touching, but it bothered him more that she laughed with im, a sparkle to her that he hadn’t been privy to see. She was relaxed, happy, having fun with the redheaded asshole. 

So, if he started not running away as much and trying to make her make the move, well. He was just tired of the one being forced to leave his own dream area, ok?

And she never disappointed - she always left when she caught notice of him behind her, found an excuse to go get more pancakes at breakfast or find a different color when drawing or the light was bothering her in this corner and she needed to move to the sunnier corner to get away from him.

He couldn’t even be mad - it was almost as much fun to fluster her as it has been to distract her during her duel with Connor. And she never touched him - he had noticed it another two weeks in. No matter how close they ever were, she wouldn’t touch him skin to skin. 

The closest they had ever come was that almost-touch by the door. He had awoken several times to be behind her, but she was usually moving away from him by the time he got his bearings. 

It was a little annoying, and a little more insulting. She touched the others - he had actually tried to grab her a few times, but she was either too fast for him, or the dream was affecting his perception, because he was always short. Once, he thought he might have caught the tips of her hair, but it slid from his grasp before he could get a firm grip.

He had watched her brush, hug, tap, push and poke the others on multiple occasions, but whenever he was around she acted like she might scald herself. At this point, he was deliberately trying to touch her, but couldn’t. 

And he definitely wasn’t jealous because she was often touching the other redhead more. He wasn’t sure quite what it was about Saeyoung that vexed him so much, but whatever it was, he didn’t like the guy and it was only intensified by the was the other man looked at his dream fixation  
(obsession)  
Like she was the sun in the sky. She wasn’t near pretty enough for that, anyways. She was definitely more pain than other girls he’d bedded. Not to mention the way she skittered away when he got close to her.

Watching her laugh and throw herself into the arms of the redhead, he turned away, grinding his teeth and contemplating going to the garden. He had found peace among the flowers there more than not, and often found the albino who he had to admit, he was fond of. There was something steadying about being around him. 

Of course, his next dream, where the mansion was quiet like in the days before, it was fair for him to be - worried. To - not want to be alone again, obviously. And when he found everyone gathered upstairs, watching the stars on the roof, the pure relief he felt was completely normal, surely. Because he hadn’t gone back to boring, annoying dreams of running through empty rooms. 

And sitting on the edge of the roof, watching the stars with the rest of them, just to the side. . . Well, it wasn’t the worst way to spend a dream. He heard a sound behind him, and saw her, walking over in a flowing dress that came to her ankles. It looked almost Victorian and he couldn’t help but snort. All her clothes seemed to be so modest. 

She looked around - her only option were sitting down by Connor, who was animatedly gesturing around at the sky, telling hushed tales to Saeran, or a gap between him and Ianto. 

The Eriks were both playing with a telescope nearby, taking turns looking through the lens, and Saeyoung was sitting, sandwiched between his brother and Ianto, butting in to Connor’s story now and then.

She seemed to be debating, then slowly, very slowly, sank down beside him, curling her feet under her, just a breath away, deliberately not looking his way. It was dark, but he was almost sure she was flushed. He considered a moment, then settled back, looking at the stars, idly tracing constellations with a fingertip. The longer he didn’t bother her, the more she relaxed, until he heard a soft sigh and she shifted to sitting crosslegged beside him, skirt billowed out around her, and leaned over briefly - just brushing their shoulders together. It was barely a touch, and through her dress it wasn’t even skin to skin, but the electric tingle that jolted through his arm, along his spine - 

Well, it was nice. And he forced himself to stay still, letting her occasionally brush her arm into his, just glancing over at her after a few minutes to find her smiling. She wasn’t looking at him, but slowly, she leaned against his side, and the - rightness, the warmth, was nice enough he didn’t even say anything to spoil it. 

And maybe, just for a second, he was a little smug when Ianto got up, leaving a spot by Saeyoung, and she didn’t move and just kept leaning into his side, watching the stars with him while he traces constellations and pointed out shooting stars.

It was somewhat chilly, so one by one the others left. Saeran was the last to go, getting up and asking her if she was cold. For the first time since sitting down, she pulled away - loss/sadness/dejection - and shook her head. 

“No, it’s too nice. I’m fine here.” A warm smile, and then she leaned back against his side, closing her eyes and snuggling against him, radiating warmth and happiness and he wasn’t sure how he knew but general contentment, and it was the best he had ever felt in a dream. It was like he was drunk on the feeling, enough to barely notice Saeran go, so they were the last two on the roof, and she was just leaning against him, and her soft breathing was the only sound.

When he woke up, he couldn’t stop the shot of regret that he wasn’t asleep longer.


	7. Chapter 7

“Do you want to be with, somebody like me?” The words were a gust of air, part of some song that he was just catching the tail end of. If he focused, he could hear the upbeat music, but the way they were said evoked a painful, bitter loneliness, something sad and ethereal. Like they had been asked before, but. . . Like the wrong answer had been given.

It should have been easy to find her,m as he ranged the house, steps feeling awkward and gangly today for some reason, but he could hardly find her. He kept hearing the soft line, signed from around a corner, but this didn’t feel like the usual dreams he had. No, this was a regular dream, the edges hazy, his mind engaged but not in control. He searched the house, following the phantom tune, the soft whispered line. Why did it make him feel so sick, hearing it? . . . Beyond that, when HAD he heard her say it? He was sure he’d never heard this as one of the songs she sang. 

Somehow his own dream had pulled him free from the relatively familiar inside of the mansion. He was in a perfectly white marble hall, glinting unreally. It wasn’t a dream. It felt real. As real as when he was with her. There was no one, no sound but the sound of his shoes tapping the ground, nothing to see but the lights casting a bright glint off the shining walls. It was clean, sterile, impossible. He had never seen a place so. . . So antiseptically pristine. It was just. . . Too white. Too perfect. The stone flawless, the walls and floor melding seamlessly, and something in his gut was screaming at him, begging him to run, run and never look back, and he didn’t know what it was but he was uncontrollably walking toward the end of the corridor, and the sound of his shoes faded under the blood pounding in his ears, the pain building at the base of his head, and then it all went bright white, like a bomb going off, and he heard a piercing scream and sat up, gasping for breath.

This wasn’t like the dreams with her, this was like - 

Like a regular dream?

not like a regular dream. This was terrifying, having lost control, knowing down that hall was something abd and going anyways and the sound he heard, the pain he had felt - 

IT wasn’t something he liked, or wanted. It made him long for the dreams where he was fighting that stubborn girl who refused to look at him or touch him - although, he thought fuzzily, they had touched, didn’t they? The fireworks? Was that a dream?

He wasn’t sure what was and wasn’t a dream. Clearly he needed more sleep. . .Just more sleep. . . Fatigue hit him suddenly, like a bus, and he was bowled into sleep as suddenly as it hit, simply falling over in bed, toes still skimming the floor. It was almost as if by magic he was back into deep sleep.

He didn’t remember the strange dreams when he woke up.


End file.
